


Water and Wind

by AltaVega9



Category: Free!
Genre: First Meetings, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-06-15 00:05:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15400566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AltaVega9/pseuds/AltaVega9
Summary: He came like the wind--without warning. And the water rippled in response.The story of how Haru and Makoto met.





	Water and Wind

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, everyone. 
> 
> I've always wanted to watch an episode featuring how Haru and Makoto met as children. Having no input on this part of their history from source material, I decided to make my own version and drafted this fanfiction around a year an a half ago to explore the inner workings of Haru's mind and how the the sweet-natured and mellow Mako-chan was able to, for all accounts and purposes, plunge the depths, if you will. Having edited and revised this recently, I'm glad to share this piece with you. Feedback would be much appreciated. No flames, please. Just love for our water babies. Cheers!

The neighborhood where he lives is quiet. It always sleeps and doesn’t bother anybody and that’s how he has always known it be, the way he has always liked it. Two rows of houses sit quietly across each other on the hill, some of them cutting into each other and jutting out like uneven teeth, but for some reason, they fit perfectly into each other, as though they have made room for each neighbor, each dwelling place swelling and shrinking to fit, embracing and welcoming at the same time. This has been home for him since he can remember—all peace, all calm, all slumber, and unassuming restfulness. The people here keep to themselves. The air rarely knows the touch of sound. He can live and not be disturbed. He can pass his days without incidence or consequence. This brings much comfort to him.

The wind picks up and touches his face, and for a while, he closes his eyes and enjoys the breeze. The day has already started to come to a close; already there are tinges of orange and pink and gold and shadow illuminating the sky. He breathes in deeply. The faint scent of spring tickles his nose. He loves the spring, maybe not as much as summer, there’s a lot more swimming in summer, but spring comes a close second. Everything smells fresh and good, and the clean, new air clears his head. The lightness and warmth of life lifts his spirits, if only slightly, but he’ll only admit that, perhaps begrudgingly, to no one but himself. His name sounds like spring, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it, he just appreciates the season. Spring means watching cherry blossoms bloom in the school yard. Spring is all about expectations being met at the same time each year. Spring begets new beginnings: a new school year, new—well, everything.

He shifts uncomfortably and frowns.

He doesn’t like change all that much. Not the kind that leaves him open to being blindsided and uncertain.

He dreads the time when, in two weeks, his new classmates will find out about his name. The other kids will give him curious looks and some will giggle and then proceed to have real fun by throwing a few jokes at his expense. Kindergarten was awful that way. Going to elementary school could be, would be much worse. It makes him terribly uncomfortable.

He swallows thickly.

He dreads having to talk to more and more people, dreads having to be away from the safety of his home and his bathtub, dreads having to adapt and change and be someone more likeable, someone else. The incredulous looks haven’t gotten to him in a way that he’d rather put up a front, no way is that ever happening, but the possibility is always there and he knows it’s only a matter of time until something happens and he’s forced to acquiesce.

Forced.

He resents that. Completely.

He hates feeling like this. It isn’t a real problem most days—people relatively keep their distance from him. There’s something about being still and exacting that intimidates or unsettles others. Or maybe that’s the common idea. On the other hand, maybe he’s unrelenting, his peace being non-negotiable. Maybe a part of him deep, deep down knows this but he hasn’t realized it yet. Maybe this truth hasn’t risen to the surface yet. Maybe it never will. He’s only six, going on seven.

But maybe, just maybe, it’s his aura, an aura that is actually quite telling to the brave and to the observant eye, and which, at first glance says, he is perhaps seemingly uninterested and bored and aloof and naturally dismissive, but really, all he might possibly be is a quiet boy, uncomfortable and awkward and sensitive. He just might be a creature of habit, he needs his space and more than that, he needs to be able to breathe, and that’s why he has his guard up, he isn’t ready to let anyone in and he doesn’t want to, he doesn’t want to share the little air he has, he doesn’t want to suffocate, and his bright blue eyes, which can be enchanting and beckon stares and smiles alike, are deep and fathomless depths that are enchanting, but waters that not just anyone can plumb. They aren’t waters just anyone can tread or explore. They have to brave the current, know the tide, but most of all, make contact with the water first before they can dive. Maybe it’s the people around him who just won’t dare to get to know him.

Or maybe, it has always been a little more complicated.

In general, he just might not like to talk to people. Maybe he finds them boring or troublesome or annoying. Maybe he finds them irritating. Or maybe he doesn’t like to make an effort. He might find it tiresome. Or maybe he likes just being alone. Maybe he prefers it over having or keeping company any day. Or maybe, he’s just scared or uneasy and he doesn’t like to impose. He certainly thinks people shouldn’t impose on him.

Not now, anyway. Better yet, not ever.

But he was sure of one thing—people never seem to get a clue. That’s why he has gotten so good at maintaining his distance.

His head was starting to hurt.

All those reasons pretty much sounded the same, even if they appeared to be different. They all seemed right. And wrong. And they didn't give him any relief. On any given day, he was prone to overthinking, too much silence, introspection, and being alone all seemingly interconnected, his mind made to probe and seek out, his environment and demeanor the perfect symbiotic relationship. He thought a lot. Much more than people thought. Multiply that by three, regarding how he did it more than they could ever assume. The problem was that he never ended up with answers, only more questions. And no resolutions, only more confusion and conflict and distress. So he taught himself to stop. He wasn't doing anyone any favors. It was all too complex. While he could reach the bottom, he just didn't feel up to it. He taught himself not to want. Wanting caused problems. Wanting made things difficult. Knowing wouldn't necessarily help. Knowing would be his undoing. And when he didn't want to go anywhere near there, he swiftly shifted--

The bottom line was—

He found consciousness in the world one day and learned his natural state had made him untouchable. Because he doesn’t like reaching out. Because he can’t begin to understand how they’ll react. And so he doesn’t. And people don’t either. And when some do, he becomes entirely self conscious and freezes most times. He goes on the defensive and appears even tougher to crack. But he is shaking. He is gasping for breath. He has been fished out of the water. He cannot possibly survive. Fish belong in their natural habitat. Leave them alone. Leave us alone.

He chokes and pleads each time it happens.

But he cannot see past it.

He cannot see if the hook will let him go back, if the net will release him.

And that terrifies him.

Alone is better. Alone is safer. Alone is, no, best. Away from all. Away from harm.

Unbridled and unobstructed and untethered is unafraid.

He sighs, breathes in and holds it to full capacity, feeling his lungs expand and his blood start to beat alarmingly in his ears. His chest starts to vibrate, crashing with the thunder of each heart beat, his mind swallowed by the dangerous, hypnotic rhythm. Worry gnaws at the edges of his mind and unconsciously, he bites his lip.

He needs to stop.

He bows his head.

He knows that’s why he prefers to draw when he isn’t in the water—he just does it, there are no restrictions or boundaries or expectations. He can relax. Like swimming, it’s all familiar strokes. Treading water is involuntary and it brings him peace. It just comes naturally. It feels right, it simultaneously allows him to float while it also anchors him. It makes his heart light. The same way spring does, arriving on time, like a pattern that it always follows, drawing is like swimming, he can do it just by repeating motions that have always been an innate part of him. Spring is the best because spring is warm and it means winter is over again and he can go back to where he feels the most comfortable. He can be him again, without solidifying and losing his mobility, his lazy, sure momentum a reflection of his natural state. He can sink to the bottom of his world, where light and dark collide, where there is no one to bother him, where the sun is sentenced to remain at the surface, at bay and away from him, where he can’t hear anything, not even his own heartbeat, where he is allowed to rest, the water supporting his body, his burdens all suddenly weightless and insignificant as he leans back, is one with the cool, blue, careful caress.

The thought of water always steadies him.

He lets out that breath and his lungs constrict.

He opens his eyes a fraction. The rays of a dying sun filter through his lashes. He feels hot and sticky all of a sudden.

He wonders if he should get the bath ready. The water is calling. His front door is only a few steps away. He can already feel the soothing, cool hands on his body, undoing the frayed, tense knots in his muscles and the bigger, tougher ones is his mind. He can come undone. He can be free.

He closes his eyes once more and drifts in his thoughts for a moment, allowing them all to wash over him, his chin nestled in his hands.

His mind has settled down.

He breathes in deeply.

It's a few moments later when he actually hears it. He picks up a slight scratching noise, tenses momentarily, but ultimately decides to ignore it. It must be a cat. One of them always strays and ends up on the stone steps leading to the torii at the top of the hill.

“Hello.”

Haru opens his eyes. The stone step beneath his feet swims into view and then he notices a shadow covering him from his right. He looks up from his perch and follows the timid voice to its source.

He swallows, feeling his throat close one step too suddenly.

It belongs to a boy.

His breath catches in his chest. He is uncertain all of a sudden and it frazzles him, but he doesn’t show it. He won't. He bears down, holds his ground, and lets out a breath. He steels himself and looks at the intruder more closely. His eyes are icy fire. The breath in his chest is lead, his heart pounding. He tones down a scowl and a small frown settles on his lips. His eyebrows are storm clouds.

Water doesn't betray the disturbances underneath its impeccable tapestry. Not until it is significant enough to breach the surface. Or unless he decides to. He is passive, his emotions inscrutable from above, the fortress protecting them rooted in the deep.

But a bubble escapes. A muscle in his jaw flies free for a second, a nervous tick which no one sees or feels. It then disappears and lays down to sleep, as though it never took place at all, purpose served.

The surface, while perfect once more, is never immune.

The boy, who is bigger and taller than him, has a shock of hair like seaweed, and stands there, looking windswept. Clad in a mint green shirt, white shorts and beach slippers, the boy regards him for a second before inching forward to where he is sitting, looking friendly and trying to look harmless, but appearing a bit hesitant at the same time.

He looks away.

He wonders what the boy wants. It’s been a windy afternoon and his parents are out and he doesn’t feel like talking, especially today of all days. He watches a cat tease a long blade of grass as it saunters in the wind. So he was right. There was a cat, he thinks wryly. He folds his arms and rests his forehead on them, mainly because he doesn’t know what to say and I need to go home. Meeting people, being sized up and trying to make conversation makes him uncomfortable. He doesn’t like being made to do things against his will.

He wants the boy to go or else, he’ll just leave.

He tenses and prays that it’s the first.

For some reason though, the boy doesn’t. He also hasn’t said another word after that one-word greeting. Oddly enough, this bothers him. He glances at the boy, his eyes resting and hardening at the tentative look in the other boy’s eyes, and Haru observes, they’re a shade of green too, like his hair and Haru waits, not necessarily thinking that he’d hope the boy would go just go already but rather do what you want, I don’t really care, just leave me alone.

“Hello,” the boy repeats.

Haru blinks. And looks to one side, opposite where the boy stands.

“Hello.”

Haru is surprised when the word escapes him and hovers in the open. The boy’s shoulders relax, the string of a bow released, and he tilts his head to a side and smiles. Haru blinks. The boy’s smile catches him completely off guard and Haru doesn’t like it. It’s too bright, thinks Haru, and he looks away. Well, further away, as only one can when looking in the exact same direction.

He has to look back a few second later though, because something else is hanging in the air, it sounds like cool, glass chimes and Haru realizes that the boy is laughing.

  
The boy is two feet away from him and his face has lit up anew, a chuckle emanates from his mouth, and there is color in his cheeks and his eyes are pure, sincere mirth too. He squats down and they are eye level and Haru watches him look so happy and be so unguarded, and Haru is scared and at the same time curious, but more than that, he is amazed when the boy extends a hand and says “I’m Tachibana Makoto” and Haru, in spite of himself, looks at the hand, blushes, looks away and after a beat, chances a glance at him and then at that hand, which looks so large and steady, and finds that it is still there.

He blinks.

Haru wonders what it would be like to touch it, is it really real, but he shrugs the thought away and simply nods. The boy lowers his hand and Haru feels a great surge of anxiety shoot through him, but the boy—Makoto—Haru tells himself, simply gets to his feet, takes a step and sits down next to Haru, their hips almost touching.

“This is a beautiful town. The neighborhood is so peaceful.”

In his eyes, the sunset is docile, dependable, more than enough. Makoto’s eyes are so open and transparent.

They aren't green.

They're hazel. Spectacular, steady, inviting, non intrusive, but honest. The sun glows burnished gold halos in such warm, kind eyes.

For a moment, his blue impenetrable windows let in the light and the ocean floor is smooth and soft. His eyes are liquid glass, clear and moist with anticipation, finer than any lacquer.

Then, it goes. Without a trace. Into nothingness. His eyes don't leave Makoto's own but they are different, transformed, suddenly deeper, fuller.

Haru sees all of this, is surprised, and nods imperceptibly, but says nothing.

“They, um, they call you—it’s Nanase, right? I was told that the family across us had a son my age.”

For the first time since Haru met Makoto a few minutes ago, he hears something he’s sure sounds like cautious, almost worried in the bigger boy’s voice. He realizes that Makoto feels uncomfortable, but is trying to hide it and soldier on. Haru doesn’t say anything. He stares blankly below.

Familiar.

“We just moved here yesterday. My father got a job in the local government center. We used to live on the outskirts of a different city, but my mother wanted me to go to school here, it’s where she grew up. I’ll be starting school this spring at Iwatobi.”

Makoto pauses and Haru holds his breath. “My mother says that the local elementary school has the best cherry blossoms in town. I hope I get to see them soon.”

Haru waits for a beat, two, three and still, Makoto doesn’t say anything else.

Haru stands up suddenly, turns away and walks up the steps, his slippers coarsely sandpapering the stone, without saying another word. Makoto’s eyes reflect shock, his timid spirit taken aback by this sudden end to their conversation and such an unexpected departure, but he is unafraid; he rises to his feet. As Haru’s back grows smaller with distance as it retreats up the stone steps, he stares at the small boy clad in a sky blue shirt for all of two seconds before taking a step and proceeding to hurry up the steps after him.

  
The door to Haru’s house is open and Makoto watches him enter the doorway. As Haru disappears from view, he hangs his head in disappointment, feeling undecided about what to do. Nanase-san hasn’t invited him in. I should probably just go home.

“It’s Haru.”

Makoto looks up. Haru is standing in the doorway, watching him. He has a strange look in his eyes, sad and distant, but adamant and hard, as though asking him to leave while challenging him to stay at the same time. There is an unnerving stillness in his eyes, which, while intimidating, does not stop Makoto from noticing they are an amazing shade of blue, a mix of light and dark, azure and cerulean, sky and sea, and in their depths, there is discomfort, wariness, shyness and curiosity, together with a thin, almost invisible shade of honest vulnerability, shrouded in a strong, very sharp defiance. Makoto blinks for a few minutes, unsure about how to continue.  
Haru continues to stare at him intently, unaware of what he has been showing, no, revealing, to this boy. He clenches his right fist in his shorts’ pocket, away from view.

Makoto fishes for something to say and—

“But wait, isn’t your name, um, Haruka?”

Haru stands there, saying nothing, but his eyebrows, which had softened ages ago, tense ever so gently.

Makoto almost hits himself. He sounds so rude, not to mention, informal. They aren’t even friends yet. And he’s very sure he wants to be friends with Haruka. And now—  
Haru tilts his head to one side, looking stiff. His eyebrows are severe. He looks stern.

Makoto looks embarrassed and feeling immensely nervous, he ends up laughing. He notices something shift in Haru’s eyes but before he can figure it out, it settles, disappearing completely out of sight.

A telling warmth erupts and blooms in his chest and he grins.

In a soft voice, he then says, “We both have girly names, don’t we, Haru?”

Haru gives him a cold, accusing look, scandalized, but he is petrified more than anything. Some pollen makes him sneeze however, and that masks how ashamed he feels when he reminds himself that Makoto is trying to be nice.

“Tachibana.”

Makoto’s smile drops and he looks surprised. Haru stops short when his face breaks into a beacon of light.

“Call me Makoto,” and his lips melt into a smile, “Haru-chan.”

When Makoto says his name, something that feels weird and oddly good and decidedly satisfying leaps inside him. He doesn’t understand what it is, though, and that puts him on edge.

“Are you all right? Did I—?” Makoto is frantic. The other boy looks so stern. Again.

But that scary look subsides quickly.

Haru now looks apologetic and troubled, and an odd expression dawns on his face. Makoto ends up laughing with relief from the pained, but strangely appealing eyes and twisted lips. He'll never get over such a face.

But Haru has registered the outburst and his look changes to one of discomfort and a small scowl almost immediately.

Then--

“It’s just Haru.”

Makoto catches a flush on his face and when Haru sees what Makoto has spotted, his face now feeling suspiciously hot, he turns away abruptly and walks into the house.

Makoto leans against the door frame.

The wind is blowing. It feels luxurious and fresh and exciting. The sky is a magnificent cloak of hues. His heart is racing and calm at the same time.

Cherry blossom sparkle, scent and color, a rain of blessings, anoint the time.

His first real friend was a mystery. He’d protect and cherish him.

“Mochirun da,” he smiles brilliantly, “Haru-chan.”


End file.
